Miss Spoken Is Moving!

Dear Readers That No Longer Read Because Miss Spoken No Longer Posts,

I'm outta here!  Gonna take this filthy mouth over to my new spot, Car Bombs and Pageant Moms.  It's not quite home yet, but the ice maker works and the rugs only smell a little bit.

Yours Truly,

Miss Spoken

Regrettable Me

Whoever says that they can look back on their life and have no regrets is full of shit. These are the people who say things like, "Every decision I've made, good or bad, has made me the person I am today."

Ass biscuits!

I know because I've used this sweepingly generic excuse once or twice in my life but what I was really saying was, "Yeah, I'm an idiot who does lots of dumb shit ... who often makes the same mistakes twice and who doesn't care to talk about it, so kindly shut your face before I get all kinds of stabby."

I have a garden full of Regret and What the Fuck Was I Thinking. Enormous blossoms of regret, like not saying I love you or even goodbye to Seltar the morning he left for work on the day he died. And regret for my monstrous lack of parenting that stretched from 2001 to 2007. That regret grows like ivy, smothering and destroying everything it creeps over if not routinely cut back.

But not all of my regret is so blue. There are also these gems .......

• I regret the day I stumbled across nude pictures of my daughter's 16 year old boyfriend. **Shudder. Gag. Shudder. Repeat**

• I regret my affair with a married man and I regret that it lasted six years. The Karma Police are still in hot pursuit over that one.

• I regret not learning how to swim. I'll blame this on my mother for never sending me to camp.

Dear Whore Mouth,

It is because of you that I cannot swim, nor am I any good at horseshoes and have never learned the art of creating those twine-string-friendship-bracelet-key chain-thingies. My life would totally have been different if you just sent me to camp for one fucking summer!

• I regret going into labor a month early and missing the first ever Lollapalooza. The lineup: Jane's Addiction, Siouxsie, NIN, Rollins Band, Butthole Surfers, Violent Femmes and Fishbone. Ughhhh ..... babies are so selfish!

• I regret watching Desperately Seeking Susan and letting it define my style for the next two years. Seriously, no adult figure in my life could tell me not to go to school dressed entirely in lace? Fuckers.

• I regret that one night stand with the guy with the Irish accent. I in fact regretted it so much, I took half the paint off of his car when I peeled out of his drive way the next morning. Oops.

• I regret not doing any of the things my crazy neighbor in San Francisco accused me of. Like putting voodoo statues in the garden to torment her, spray painting the word Bitch on her car, dragging dead bodies across the floor and especially, my personal favorite, throwing pots of piss at her back door.

• I regret tequila. 'Nough said.

Needlepoint

It took four long hours but taaa-daaaa ..... here she is, my latest tattoo:

It's an original piece inspired by Georgia O'keefe and the Native American blessing for family prosperity. And now that the tattoo is paid for, I can start focusing on the whole prosperity thing.

The Elusive Vagina Tribe of Africa

It was your average morning here at The House That Miss Spoken Built. The Boy was consuming his first round of sugar for the day, Boss Lady was eating cereal and contemplating the five day weather forecast and I was busy trying to mainline coffee while packing lunches and pulling clothes from the dryer.

Very typical.

Until Boss Lady said something that sounded like the word "vagina."

"What did you just say?"

"Vagina."

**Blink. Blink. Blow curl out of my eye.**

"Huh? Say it again."

"Vagina."

**Squinting my eyes, sure that my five year old is just fucking with me. Sip coffee. Act normal.**

"One more time ..."

"Vaaaagiiiinnnnnaaaa."

"Why are you talking about vaginas to your brother?"

"Because it's a tribe of people in Africa."

**Coffee slips from my lips straight down my shirt. Fuck.**

"Who told you that? Somebody at school?"

"No, my brain told me."

"Well, your brain is wrong because there is no such thing as a Vagina Tribe in Africa or any other place."

"Yes there is, Mom."

"No. A vagina is where you pee from. Your lady parts. Boys have penises, girls have vaginas. I of course have fine china."

**Tilts her head to the side, looks at me and considers how stupid I may or may not be.**

"Not China, Mom .... Africa. Duh."

In Anything-But-Vagina related news, today is My Gay's 26th birthday! That makes him a whopping 33 in gay years. Tonight we'll be celebrating at Reno's finest gay bar which means I should really finish vagazzling my African Tribe.

Happy Birthday, Mark!!! Here's hoping you don't puke on your shoes tonight!!

If My Happiness Were An Ass It Would Look Like This . . .

Holy Flying Monkey Fucker, it's the first day of school!!!!

Cue the marching band, the baton twirlers and somebody pass me a drink .... yes, it's finally here! I couldn't be happier even if a bus load of midget rugby players pulled up in front of my house and asked if Miss Spoken could come outside and play for awhile.

Yes, I'm that happy and that obsessed with The Little People.

There have only been a handful of times that I've actually been alone in my own house. But now that The Boy and Boss Lady are both in school full time (Legal is in jail but you'll have to wait for The Mother Summer Fucker Letter to read up on that), I have this modest two story town home all to myself. For those of you non-breeders out there, you probably can't grasp how monumental this day is. And if you're one of those mothers who dreads the kids going back to school because you just can't breathe without them needing you all day and you question who will wipe little Jimmy's ass properly, then you really don't understand me and probably quit reading this post right after the "Holy Flying Monkey Fucker" intro. For me, herding them to school is like somebody telling you your ass looks good in those jeans. It feels that good. And even though I have to share all six hours of my solitary time with roughly 400 loads of laundry, I will not allow the soiled clothing to piss on my parade.

It's back to school time and this year, I'm not fucking around.

I will ...

Save money, because vacation time is over and fourteen boxes of Capri Sun is still cheaper than the cost of keeping me inebriated while sleeping outside camping.

Bathe my children, because the pool closes after Labor Day.

Clean the house, and it will actually stay that way for at least the next six hours. Gone are the days of sweeping, wiping, washing and scrubbing in twenty minute intervals.

Write the great American novel, or at least compile my Sunday dinner recipes into a swanky new binder.

Sit in silence, because Spongebob will not be played on a constant loop in my living room. Screw you Sponge, you are no longer the soundtrack of my every move. But I will sort of miss you, Squidward. I was begininning to think that you really got me.

Not eat lunch, because that's why God made coffee.

Rub one out in the middle of the day, because I can.

Mother Summer Fucker: A Prologue

The summer of 2010 was the summer I nearly killed my blog.

Had she been a pet dog, she would have been emaciated and roaming local freeways, dodging cars in search of food scraps and a gentle hand. Had she been a feline, she would of been one of those flat cats you see on an episode of Hoarders. A forgotten skull crushed by boxes of useless shit and feasted on by it's own starving family. My blog is one of my kids, sitting in their pajamas and eating pizza for breakfast at 11:23 on a Friday morning, whining to go to the pool and hearing my mouth respond, "Please stop talking." My blog is homeless, sitting in her own piss with her jaundiced nails. Her sign says she will work for food but she's lying.

But I vacuumed yesterday which means that I'm not clinically depressed.

Back when I actually did feed my blog on a regular basis, played with her hair and called her Sugar, I wrote a post dissing Christmas Letters. I still think they're stupid (no disrespect to Suburban Kamikaze). My theory was based on the obvious -- who cares what I did all year and if you actually held any interest, you could check out my well-fed, much loved, always shaved above the knee blog.

But since this is the summer that my blog turned into a neglected, hairy little beast in desperate need of vaginal rejuvenation, I think I'm going to do the unthinkable and write a Summer Letter.

And all five people that still check in to see if Miss Spoken has dribbled anything out of her mouth will read it and love it and ask me to almost kill my blog every summer. Maybe even twice a year, which should actually happen on it's own but it never hurts to have cheerleaders.

Don't Call It A Comeback! (at least not until there's more than one post this month)

I'm back bitches, gays, mothers who love profanity and anybody else who accidentally reads the word that is Miss Spoken!

Ahhhh, another extended hiatus from the blogosphere with absolutely no reason other than (a) I often question whether or not what I have to say is worth reading and (b) can I make what I have to say sarcastic enough that the collection of words truly conveys the ridiculous recipe of boredom, exhaustion, laundry and random vagina jokes that has become my existence.

Maybe I think too much.

Maybe I think too little.

I'll have to think about that at 3:00 in the morning when Satan's flock of Devil Birds start their early-morning cacophony of shrieks and cackles from their Hell-based nest (i.e. the tree right outside my bedroom window).

It's not that there hasn't been anything to write about. I have actually left my house and not just for butter and wine, although I gotta say, I really do love my butter and wine trips. And I have on occasion used my computer for reasons other than researching the do's and dont's of buying pharmaceuticals over the Internet (note: I think I'll stick to random trips to Mexico like any normal mother of three would do.)

Let me bore you with my June itinerary:

We kicked off week one with The Boy and Boss Lady participating in their school's Spirit Week. I'm told that this is some kind of school tradition and I do have vague memories of Legal putting me through this when she was in school. But the schools I attended in San Francisco either didn't perform these rituals or the memories were so horrendous I have deleted them from my memory bank. My elementary school was a concrete slab with three eight foot poles sticking out of the ground. Maybe a ball had been tethered to them at one point. Who the fuck cares. No jungle gym. No fucking tanbark. Nothing but concrete and benches to park your ass when you made little Susie close her eyes and you walked her repeatedly into the only structure available for your amusement: steel poles. Middle school was no different (except there were no steel poles, just a guy who sometimes walked by the fence and exposed himself). I wish I could tell you about high school but habitual truancy does not promote a great understanding of school pride, Winter Ball themes or even the location of a locker I'm sure I was assigned. But to be fair to my 16 year old self, it was 1988, Jane's Addiction just released "Nothing's Shocking" and you could buy Brass Monkey in 750 mL bottles.

Week one ended with a two night camping trip to Donner Lake. Ya'll remember how this ended last year? This time we managed to escape without too much blood and Legal stayed away from the vodka. Mostly because there wasn't any and she already learned her lesson about what it feels like to vomit copious amounts of wine so at least my Chardonnay was safe. This family of mine is pretty notorious for peddling crazy so it was only fitting that on our last night we almost got kicked out for playing Telephone. You know, the game that involves nothing but whispering. Fortunately for us, Johnny Boy is our go-to guy when it comes to speaking with the police or anybody in a I Can Arrest You capacity. Not only did we not get kicked out, But JB also schooled the Ranger on some of his own rules and regs that for whatever reasons, JB knew better than he did (Note: everybody run out right now and pick up a JB of your very own. It's like bail money in the bank.)

And that was just week one. Stay tuned for the remaining weeks which include belly dancers, an arrest and the subsequent chewing of Xanax like tic-tacs!!